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Late this afternoon, Ruth and I headed out west on Interstate 44 and then south from Grey Summit to Robertsville State Park. One of many parks that border the muddy Meramec River and one neither of us had even been to before.

Once the estate of a local landowner, Edward James Roberts, the land provides boat access to the river, a campground, and a few scattered trails. Fairly typical northern Ozarks countryside, surrounded by rolling hills. A pretty place and all the more so for being open to the public.

We drove down the access road as far at the river and then walked back onto the land, coming across this fascinating cemetery in an isolated and remote spot.
Not inaccessible though, as the park service had cut a broad path through the thick meadow vegetation, and provided a sign to direct us.

As is common with family plots, the cemetery was surrounded by an ironwork fence complete with a squeaky, rusted gate.

We went inside. The stones were old, most dating back to the 19th century. Only a few were still legible. The imposing monument, complete with sphere, seemed of more recent provenance. However, some of the inscriptions here seemed fresh, other less so, making it difficult to date this stone. There was one jarring note. Even though we were in the deep countryside, the cemetery now lay in one of those wide grooves that criss-cross America. A conduit not for spirits, but for the same power that allows me to write this very blog post. They are necessary, but I am alone in finding these giants of metal and ceramic a little scary?